


What's a Guy to Do?

by mldrgrl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: A sequel to Until Next Time - from Mulder's perspective.





	

My partner isn’t as difficult to read as she thinks she is.  Granted, most of the time she’s locked tighter than Fort Knox, but I’ve been with her nearly 24/7 for the last three years and I know a thing or two about her moods and cycles.  There’s also nuance to every ‘I’m fine’ she throws out at me.  Said quietly, she’s merely tired.  Said with a bite in it means she's annoyed, but it wasn't by anything I did.  And then there’s the ‘I’m _fine_ , Mulder’ which is the worst one of all, because it usually means I’ve pissed her off in some way.

 

Now, I know that I can be a bit of a horse’s ass.  I try not to be, but I have quite a knack for putting my foot in my mouth, or being oblivious to to my surroundings when I’m focusing on working a case.  But, what am I supposed to do when I see her pinching the bridge of her nose or rub her temples to ease the tension in her head and she says ‘I’m fine’ if I ask if she needs anything?  No, really, tell me.

 

And let me just say this: I don’t think of Scully as being any less of an agent or a partner for being a woman, but things happen to women on a monthly basis that affect them.  Not their work, but their personality.  They just _do_.

 

Example:  This afternoon we stopped at a gas station to fill up on our way to Flagstaff.  I asked Scully if she wanted anything from the convenience shop inside.  She said no, but neither of us had eaten since the rubbery egg and bagel combo the airplane called breakfast.  I also knew full well that if she kept popping those Midol on an empty stomach, she was just going to get nauseous and even more irritable, so I got her some graham crackers because I was pretty sure they were the only thing she’d deem edible.  My chili dog was excellent, for the record, but that’s not the point.

 

Anyway, she threw the crackers back at me and snapped, “I told you I didn’t want anything,” before she pounded a fist onto the dashboard and cursed the air conditioning that wasn’t blowing cold enough.

 

So, I ask again, what should I do?  Because I did the only thing I could do and kept my mouth shut.  I put the crackers in the glove box, hoping at some point she’d stop being so stubborn and just eat.  

 

And another thing.  How can I both help her and not treat her any differently than any other agent?  I know she didn’t want to be out there interviewing friends and family of our missing person, but she would kill me if I suggested she just check herself into the motel and sit this one out.  When she suggested that we stakeout the bar where the man worked for a bit, it felt like entrapment.  Because if I said no, she would ask why not.  And quite honestly, I’m really bad at lying to her.  Especially when she asks a direct question.  So I would have to tell her, because you’ve been rubbing your head all night and your eyes are bloodshot and I can see you wince and grab your side every so often.  You’ve gone through what was left of a bottle of Midol in 14 hours, your neck hurts, you’re cranky as hell, and if I didn’t already have it marked on my calendar, because yes, I’ve been keeping track, you’re hours away from starting your period and as I’ve been told by many a girlfriend in the past, it’s no fucking picnic, so just relax.

 

That probably would’ve earned me the ass chewing of the century.  And all for what?  Because my stoic little partner just can’t admit to ever being less than _fine_.

 

I feel badly, though.  I do.  All the female agents I’ve ever worked with think they need to be twice as smart, twice as tough, twice as serious to be taken _seriously_ in the good ol’ boys club.  It can be true, but she should know me better by now to know that I’m not one of those guys.  Not once have I ever thought for even a second that she was less capable of doing her job just because she was a woman.  See, but even suggesting that she take a few hours off to feel better implies something else.

 

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.  Because I know she blames me for being here, but am I really going to let an investigation into a guy that went missing one week ago who happens to also have been allegedly dead for the last fifteen years pass us by?  I tell you, if I tossed the file aside because she was bound to be crampy and bloated for the duration, _that_ would be treating her differently.  If I left her behind because I know she’d much rather be on her couch, wrapped in flannel, watching romantic comedies and eating ice cream from the carton, _that_ would be treating her differently.  P.S. Yes, Scully, I also know about the romantic comedies and the ice cream.

 

I don’t care what she thinks, I still get to feel bad about her condition.  It really sucks to feel bad and being out of town doesn’t help.  If I know Scully, and I think I know her pretty well, she’s probably dying for something greasy and fattening right now because she hasn’t eaten all day (though, for the record, that is _not_ my fault) and she’ll never get to sleep if she’s running on empty.

 

There’s a strip mall behind the hotel with a questionable looking burger joint.  I can smell the fat cooking from between our parking lots.  It’s perfect.  I go and place an order and hit up the Rite Aid a few doors down.  Can’t have her out of Midol this whole trip or it’ll be a nightmare for both of us.  I assumed I’d find it in the regular pain reliever section, but no such luck.  So, I go into the pink and blue and purple aisle of lady things and jesus christ there’s so many choices.  I’m not here to get something _that_ personal, just the drugs, thank you.  But, god it must suck to be a woman.  I also pick up a heating pad that’s on sale in the same aisle because I have the distinct recollection of a girlfriend in college who once told me she would rather sleep with her heating pad than me for three days out of the month.  So, clearly it’s good for something.

 

The meals are ready by the time I leave the pharmacy and I walk back to the motel to knock on her door.  I brace myself for a bit of snapping, but she’s more subdued than when I left her.  I swear I see drool at the corner of her mouth when she opens up one of the greasy bags and takes a whiff.

 

I need to take my leave.  I’d love to stay and eat with her.  I’d even love to offer to rub her head or watch a romantic comedy with her, but when she sees what else I’ve brought, she’s bound to be embarrassed.  And that’s not what I want.  I just want her to feel better.  I just want her to know that I care.

 

So, we’ll get through this and she’ll be back to herself in the next few days.  We’ll pretend like none of this ever happened and we’ll do what we came here to do.  Things will return to normal.  Until the next time.

 

The End


End file.
